


you didn't get to heaven but you made it close

by maranhig



Series: i’ll match the color scheme of your bedroom walls [2]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Infidelity, M/M, POV Second Person, Porn with Feelings, sad boner times for everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:15:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29872458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maranhig/pseuds/maranhig
Summary: "am I making you feel that good, sweetheart?" he asks, and you warble out a sob that might have been ‘yes,’ might have been ‘edison,’ might have been ‘please.’/in which sykkuno still hopes beyond hope.
Relationships: Edison Park/Sykkuno
Series: i’ll match the color scheme of your bedroom walls [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2192532
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	you didn't get to heaven but you made it close

(So maybe he’s every single bad idea.)

“God, look at you,” he croons, his hands bruise-tight on your waist as he thrusts in with an audible slap. You whine into the moist pillow, hot with your drool, your tears. You’d probably be rocked halfway up the mattress if you weren’t already lying flat on your belly, your aching dick trapped between the bed and your own body weight.

“You really like it like this, huh? You’re squirming so much.” Once again, as he’s done for the past few minutes, or centuries, he draws out slow. So slow you can measure every inch that leaves you, scraping along your nerves with devastating precision. He keeps going until only his tip rests inside you, and you clench around it with a panicked groan.

(Maybe you saw all the warning signs glaring at you, hundreds of feet high and doused in neon.)

The anticipation of when he’ll fuck into you again is the worst of it. It’s what makes the feeling twice as intense when he shoves back in within half a second, so deep you can taste him in the back of your throat. A nonsensical thought enters your mind, of how you’re already ruining your brand-new place by scrabbling and scraping at the fresh coats of paint on the wall.

“You’re blushing all the way down to your cute hole, are you really feeling that good?” His hands move to spread your cheeks apart, baring your lube-tacky skin to his hungry eyes. Both his thumbs move to trace feather-light around your tender rim as he asks, “Am I making you feel that good, sweetheart?”

You warble out a sob that might have been ‘yes,’ might have been ‘Edison,’ might have been ‘please.’

(Maybe you read each billboard, contemplated their messages: _he’s gonna use you, he’s gonna hurt you, he’s gonna leave you.)_

He picks up the pace not long after more muffled, nonsensical pleas are fucked out of you. His high moans ring so loud into your ears over the crude smacks of his hips against your ass.

Your cock burns from being chafed against dry cotton, but the pain only adds another dimension of twisted pleasure. You fist your hands in the sheets and try to meet his thrusts, even if you can’t do anything with how he’s squatting his full weight on your thighs. The want, the _need_ , is too much and not enough, all at once.

His voice and his words are so sweet, a jarring contrast to how he fucks you. “God you’re so _tight_ , baby— Nobody else feels the way you do— Such a good boy for me—”

You cum with a hoarse scream, sudden and intense and blinding. He follows soon after, nothing but a soft sigh leaving his lips. You whimper with every throb of his cock inside you, so visceral and overwhelming.

(Maybe you put the pedal to the metal, needle to the red.)

He doesn’t pull out straightaway. He stays balls-deep, grinding his cum in further. You’ve stopped using a condom since he hates how it feels and you’re both supposed to be clean anyway.

You stay starfished out, semi-conscious, vaguely noting the creak of his weight leaving the bed, the hiss of your shower running. You can feel your sweat drying, cool and tacky on your skin. The sensation of lying in a wet spot isn’t an immediate worry, thanks to the towel that you already laid down beforehand.

You don’t want to risk moving. You don’t want his cum to leak out of you just yet.

(Maybe in the dust of every crash, you simply dragged your aching bones up and kept speeding to him anyway, again and again and again.)

An indeterminate amount of time later, you’re stirred to waking by a hand snagging through your damp hair. He’s already fully-dressed as he murmurs, “I'm sorry, I have to go. I promised Leslie we’d have the weekend together.” His shy smile surfaces, a rare, cherished sight. “Can’t believe it’s our anniversary already.”

You hum, not trusting your voice. He leaves a soft peck on your cheek, right at the edge of your lips, and says, “Thanks, Sykkuno. I’ll text you later.”

(Maybe one day you’ll finally reach the end of this winding road, and you won’t have to chase after him anymore, and he’ll stay.)

The click of the lock to your front door is as loud as a gunshot. With the piercing pain between your ribs, it might as well have been one.

(Maybe.)

**Author's Note:**

> title from '42' by coldplay~
> 
> look. even i dont know where this came from. i was stricken by the thorst And the sads. and the prosey prose. just take this mess lol
> 
> dont share this to CCs or im locking it up, please and thank u.


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